


The Key of Eb

by internetname



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Harps, M/M, Pining Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetname/pseuds/internetname
Summary: “No, I don’t have a harp,” Castiel snapped, looking away from Dean to the man’s newly resurrected mother, Mary Winchester. Dean didn’t press it, and they were soon all too busy looking for Sam and dealing with the British Men of Letters to discuss it in any event. It really wasn’t worth talking about, whatever the reason.It was hardly the first time the angel Castiel had lied to a Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 108
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vegas Granny](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Vegas+Granny).



> This starts at the beginning of Season 12, then sort of speeds through most of the season, and then diverges. Comments make me write faster!

“No, I don’t have a harp,” Castiel snapped, looking away from Dean to the man’s newly resurrected mother, Mary Winchester. Dean didn’t press it, and they were soon all too busy looking for Sam and dealing with the British Men of Letters to discuss it in any event. It really wasn’t worth talking about, whatever the reason.

It was hardly the first time the angel Castiel had lied to a Winchester.

***

Once Sam, Dean, and their mother were safely back in the Bunker after their horrific capture, imprisonment, and asinine deal with Billy, Lucifer had been pulled out of the president, and Castiel had apologized deeply to Lily Sumner, the angel found himself, as he often did at night, looking through the archives.

The Men of Letters seemed to hate to throw things away, yet managed a truly impressive level of organization. Beyond the library and the annex with its dungeon, there were fifteen other rooms with shelf after shelf of newspapers, microfiche, newsreels, magazines, pamphlets, and Chuck Himself knew what else. Castiel figured he might make it through every last article in the bunker in a hundred years, but thinking about that sort of thing just reminded him that Sam and Dean would be dead long before a hundred years, so he had never made any sort of real plan.

He was currently going through a _Life_ magazine from December 10, 1945. The cover feature was on party dresses, but he found the article on appropriate birthday presents much more interesting. He had never actually tried to give Sam or Dean a present—not like Amara, who had given Dean the gift of his resurrected mother without preparing either of them for the experience. Was anyone really surprised she was having trouble adjusting?

He had once given them the gift of his blood to help them kill Dick, but that had hardly been an act of affection on his part, just one more act of loyalty to his brothers in arms.

Would Dean even like a regular present? He remembered giving Claire that frowning cat doll from the Hot Topical, but he had no idea whether the present had been at all “successful.”

Thinking about it, Castiel decided if he were for some reason to give Dean a present, it would be something for his car, Baby. Perhaps a nice wax job or some new tires.

Or perhaps a bottle of good scotch, or better yet, a case of cheap scotch.

Cass found himself smiling. The truth was he simply didn’t understand the need to own possessions. Whatever he came up with would doubtlessly be incorrect. Apart from Jimmy’s clothes (or their often-replicated replacements), the only thing he himself owned was his angel blade.

 _And my harp_ , he found himself adding with a sudden frown. Technically, he’d abandoned it in Heaven when he rebelled against the Apocalypse and was no longer something he could claim, but as it was uniquely his as much as his blade was, it was still something he could claim to “own.”

It was clear from the hand movements Dean had made when he mentioned a harp to Mary that he thought angels should have those little Greek harps like a Hummel figure. In truth, his harp, if ever made corporeal, would be a concert-grand pedal harp with a few extra strings.

Before the nixed Apocalypse, angels kept to their places. For all Naomi accused him of having a “crack in his chassis,” Castiel had kept to his assigned role. Whatever objections he had he kept to himself, unless it involved battle strategy, in which case he had always (yes, always) been able to explain why his plans were superior. When he’d been tapped to save the Righteous Man from Hell, he’d assumed that was why.

In peace, angels really had nothing to do but watch, and as he’d once explained in the back of a 1967 Impala to a new Prophet, watching humans had been incredibly boring.

It made nothing but sense that soldiers kept in reserve for decades, if not centuries, needed something to do to remain in synch with each other. You couldn’t let a militia just roam around doing whatever and then expect them to snap back into rank and file. They needed very much to keep in touch, but boot camp couldn’t go on literally forever.

The obvious remedy was music.

And it had to be music without an obvious percussionist. The only one who could beat the drum to keep them all together was an archangel, and from the before the Fall, Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, Raphael had shown as much interest in the musical aspect of angel radio as they did in the evolution of human Tupperware parties.

What humans would call “string instruments” were the answer. Angels played the celestial equivalent of violins, cellos, violas, guitars, kotos, shamisen (strangely popular), zithers, dulcimers, and, as in Castiel’s case, harps. In short order (a few hundred years of practice), the chorus of vibrations matched the vibrations of the universe (what humans would eventually refer to in terms of “string theory”) to be in perfect harmony with the spheres.

Around the time the Great Pyramids were being built, Castiel and his brothers and sisters had once performed a piece that made even Michael weep. If he tried, the angel could recall every single perfect note.

With a sudden insight, Castiel realized the last time he’d “touched” his “harp” was right after the incident with killing the little female Nephilim, the girl who turned out to be the all-too-human daughter of Lily Sunder. Some part of him must have known even then that something was horribly wrong.

In fact, thinking of it, he’d been more obedient than ever following that day. Had he needed to prove to himself he had no choice but to follow orders? If so, it had only been Dean (and Sam) who had allowed him to see his life of obedience was foolish. Or worse, it had been just plain evil.

Personally, Castiel wasn’t convinced that returning Mary Winchester to life had been a truly “good” act by Amara, but he had to confess that seeing her in the flesh, so to speak, had been an experience that affected him deeply. This was the woman who birthed the two best human beings he’d ever met, two men chosen by destiny to bring about the end of the world (no actual paradise included, as far as he could tell) and who had instead given destiny “the finger” and were working to make the world better one case at a time.

Frankly, Sam, Dean, and Mary were doing the work he thought angels should be doing, particularly since the Hell gate had opened to spew demons onto the Earth. Being a solider at their side was the first time in millennia he’d truly known (not just trusted) that his mission was just.

 _So why deny your harp?_ he demanded of himself.

Castiel snorted at the _Life_ magazine in his hands. He could imagine what the Winchesters would have to say about his thoughts about his harp. Sam would probably approve of his appreciation of the arts. Dean was more likely to ask him to play “Ramble On” and then forget about the whole thing.

No, Dean would bring it up constantly for a while. “Hey, Cass. Wanna play a waltz? I heard one in a music box once, you know, one with the little ballerina?”

Yeah, no thank you, assbutt. Asswipe. Asshat. Whatever it was. And who cared about things like that anyway?

Castiel became aware that his fingers were twitching. He had played the harp for longer than humanity had existed. Was he missing it?

Getting his harp now would mean a trip to the sandbox and possibly being killed.

He didn’t need it.

Did he?


	2. Chapter 2

Several days followed. To his sorrow, Mary again didn’t stay with her sons. Castiel understood her complex situation, but he mourned for his friends.

Such was the way of humans. They loved more than any angel could comprehend, but that love was more complicated than they could appreciate.

With a frown, Castiel wondered whether he included himself in that assessment. Then, with a deeper frown, he reminded himself he knew nothing. Believing he understood more than an angel could had gotten into trouble a dozen times, if not more. He knew nothing. He understood nothing. He wasn’t even a decent angel, let alone some sort of bridge between angel and human (his second-deepest, most ridiculous wish).

On a Tuesday, Sam and Dean left for a “milk run,” and Castiel, sensing the brothers needed some healing time, just nodded and said something about checking in with Heaven. They both agreed quickly enough that he knew he had somehow made the right call to stay behind. Blind luck was running—stumbling—with him.

For a day, Castiel sat in the Bunker library, remembering days Before Angel Fall. He remembered flying. He remembered the power of being a Seraph as he stood toe-to-toe against the Archangel Raphael, before he’d allowed his own obsession and then the million souls of Purgatory to turn him into that mutant beast that still shamed him to his last vibration.

And then, desperately, Castiel felt the need to make something beautiful. It didn’t matter if it were a flower or a rainbow or graffiti on a freeway overpass.

Except that he wasn’t particularly good at flowers or rainbows, let alone spray paint.

It was just a few hours drive to the sandbox, and no one—to his astonishment—challenged him as he made his way into Heaven. He walked down the blank white corridor expecting aggression with every step. But there was only the echo of his footsteps in Jimmy’s high-top shoes, step after step. When he reached Door 1514, he opened it.

His harp was there, just sitting there.

By the Host, it was beautiful.

Tall, six feet, ten inches. Solid gold from the crown to the pedal box. Each string wasn’t spun from poets’ sinews, but they were a mixture of steel and silk only angels could achieve. Cass should know, considering the decades he’d spent learning the best techniques.

Looking at it now, all those moments of making, of learning, of playing, of belonging to a chorus hit him in the gut so hard he doubled over and then fell to his knees.

The harp in front of him, all alone for over a century in its designated room, thrummed in just-audible sympathy.

For a while, Castiel just rested there, head down, shoulders slumped against the weight of what he had been the last time he had touched his instrument and what he was now. He had fallen so hard and so far, and yet he regretted not an inch of it. How could something he had made then accept him when he could not in good faith even apologize?

The thrumming got a little stronger, and Castiel became more aware of the fact that he was truly here, looking at this discarded part of himself, and there was no one else around, no one to judge, no one to make snide comments about “top-of-the-Christmas-tree Castiel,” and no one to talk about how he had erred on a descending chromatic scale.

A very few moments later, the angel walked over to his harp, sat down on a bench he decided needed to be there, put the harp’s knee back over his shoulder, and launched into a simple piece his flight used to perform as a sort of warm-up. It only took thirty-six hours (Earth time, which was a silly way to mark time, but he was used to it) to run through completely. What did surprise him was his lack of errors.

“Like riding a bike,” he murmured, running a fond hand down the soundbox.

Something far to his right moved. Whipping his head around, he prepared to drop his angel blade, then stilled.

Naomi and two of her lackeys, Jamaliel and Loren, were standing there.

“It’s been quite a while since I last heard that,” Naomi said.

Castiel just looked at her.

Naomi looked annoyed, then seemed to school herself. She held out her left hand, and then was holding a cello by the neck. A bow appeared in her right hand. She nodded at the others to do the same. Jamal produced a lute, and Loren held her hurdy-gurdy.

Castiel shrugged slightly. “Should be interesting.”

For the next two days (Earth time), they played, though only Castiel stayed the whole time. Two violins came and went together, an acoustic guitar stepped in several times. A Celtic harp, a Hardanger fiddle, and a viola came and went.

In the end, all of the remaining angels in Heaven played. Castiel thought of Sister Jo and her dulcimer, and then of (the real) Ezekiel and his double bass. He remembered Metatron’s mandolin, Samandriel’s banjo, Mirabelle’s tanpura.

In the end, all the others had returned to their duties, and Castiel played a song of mourning and remembrance, his fingers stiff with shame, and guilt, and grief.

As he left Room 1514 and returned to 42, no one stopped him. Back at the sandbox, he noticed the weather had turned colder. There was a little ice in the grass that crunched under his feet as he walked to his car.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam and Dean weren’t in the bunker when he returned, but they had left a note about a vampire hunt in Oklahoma, which agreed with the half-dozen messages on his phone, four from Sam, two from Dean.

With a nod, he walked to his room, took off his coat and shoes, and lay on the bed with the TV remote. Something played on the screen, but he found himself mostly watching his fingers as they plucked the empty air.

Hours passed.

The remaining host of Heaven despised him, as well they should, yet playing with them had made him feel something he thought he had lost forever with a bloody sigil smeared on the white wall of a beautiful room.

He thought about that rainy night in a dirty alley, kicking Dean’s ass and feeling pretty good about it. It was the most furious he had ever felt, before or since.

_“I rebelled for this? So that you could surrender to them? I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”_

He had turned his back on his brothers and sisters, and his reward was a note left for him in an empty Bunker.

No.

Castiel sat up and turned off the TV.

No, that wasn’t right. He was being maudlin and pathetic. It had been his choice alone to help derail the Apocalypse, and he didn’t regret it for a moment. He would do it again, over and over until his last breath. It had been right. It had even been righteous.

And finally, the angel just allowed himself to admit he was lonely.

He loved Sam and Dean and Mary. He cared for Claire. He admired Jodi.

And yes, he particularly loved Dean, but that wasn’t important. It comforted him beyond measure to know that Dean thought of him as a brother, but it also reminded him that Dean was human and he, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, was not. Any sort of relationship beyond what they currently shared was completely out of the question, and that was . . . well, it wasn’t great, but it was fine.

But he was still without a flight, without a chorus.

His fingers plucked absent strings.

His harp was in the room.

Castiel looked at it in shock.

It was just as grand and beautiful as he had thought it would be on the Earth’s plane. Even in the somewhat underwhelming yellow light of the room, it shone, and again he heard a nearly inaudible thrumming from its strings.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he put the harp’s knee over his shoulder and ran through a few dozen basic scales. Vaguely, he was aware of some other angel up in Heaven or two warming up. Loren had improved her hurdy-gurdy bit, and the sound was cleaner.

He played a piece for battle and then another for peace. He played a celebration of spring and then another for winter. He played an ode to the sun and then another to the moon.

Sometimes, another angel joined him. Often he played alone. He ran through songs of fellowship, skipped through tunes of honeybees, and strummed through ditties of sailors lost on the waves back when sirens lured them to their deaths.

Occasionally, some other angel began a new piece, and he followed along gratefully. Sometimes he just played random notes like the wind through an Aeolian harp. Sometimes, when no other angel was playing with him, he picked his way through a bit of Led Zeppelin or Bob Seger. Then he tried a bit of Mozart and a Celtic tune not heard on Earth for over a thousand years.

He was about halfway through “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” when someone—Dean—knocked on the door.

“Cass? You in there?”

In a thought, the harp was tucked away in his pocket. With another, he moved to the door and opened it.

“Were you playing music?” Dean asked, frowning and looking behind him.

“Oh, yes. On my phone.”

“Ha! I knew you liked harps!” the man said, grinning in triumph.

“How did the hunt go?”

Dean looked distracted for half a second, then did a little fist pump. “Five vamps, all headless! Come get a beer.”

Castiel nodded and followed Dean into the kitchen.

“Was that harp music?” Sam asked, looking up from the laptop he’d set on the kitchen table.

“Yeah!” Dean said, heading to the refrigerator. “Think you know a guy.”

Castiel smiled and sat down across from Sam. The small stool was as uncomfortable as always, but his fingers had finally stilled.

“Dean says your hunt went well.”

Sam nodded, staring intently at his computer now. “It was kind of an odd nest, though.”

“How so?”

“Well, you know,” Dean said, handing him an opened bottle. “Usually, they’re dives, a combination of frat house and slaughter house. But this one was kinda, I dunno.”

“ _Better Homes and Gardens_ ,” Sam said, taking a bottle from his brother.

“Showroom ready,” Dean added, nodding. “I thought we had the wrong place until they flashed their fangs.”

“Was anything else unusual?” Castiel asked.

“Nah. Bags of blood in the icebox, a couple bodies buried in the backyard. Probably the original owners.”

Castiel nodded and took a sip of his beer while Dean crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen’s metal counter.

“Wouldn’t have minded having you with us, though. Where’d you go?”

“I went to Heaven to see if they knew of any unexpected repercussions from Lucifer’s possession of the president.”

“Were there?”

“Evidently not.”

The evening progressed predictably from there. Later, when the men were asleep, Castiel found the first of what would be many issues of _The_ _Saturday Evening Post_. The publication presented a world the angel knew had never existed, with a strange nostalgia for the non-present. The sanitized, sentimental portrait of family, of America, and humanity in general was unsettling yet soothing. It was myopic, jingoistic, and incredibly exclusive, but still, it was an attempt to see an ideal world on Earth: a White, suburbanized Paradise that was oddly adorable, like a stiff pair of bunny slippers.

Then he got a call from Sam.

“ _Castiel?_ ”

“Yes?”

“ _You need to come here quickly. Dean . . . Dean may not be Dean much longer_.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes, Dean wouldn’t exactly pray, but his thoughts and feelings were so powerful that they reached Castiel anyway.

_My name is Dean Winchester. Sam is my brother. Mary Winchester is my mom. And Cass . . . is my best friend._

The angel found himself pressing down on the accelerator as the car lurched forward. If he got pulled over, he’d deal with it.

Sam had explained what he could about Dean’s condition, including Rowena’s description of the Black Grimoire. Castiel knew there was nothing he could do to reverse the magic but was hopeful his presence might be able to help in some way. He was a damn seraph, after all.

If nothing else, he could keep an eye on Rowena. He’d let her get the better of him once, but if he ever caught her muttering a spell his way again, she’d find out angel blades were even more effective than witch-killing bullets.

The car went a bit faster.

It was 1 a.m. when Castiel made it to the motel, easily able to see the lights were still in on in Room 129. He knocked on the door and heard Sam call, “Dean! I told you! Wait!”

“It’s me, Sam!” he called just as the door swung open and Dean was standing there.

“Who’s me?” he asked cheerfully.

Castiel hid a wince, but then Dean’s eyes went wide and somehow a bit more green.

“Cass!”

One hundred, eighty-three pounds of hunter was then in Castiel’s arms, his torso being clasped tightly by flannel-clad arms and his nose filled with a scent more familiar and welcome than the ozone of Heaven or the lavender of a healthy bee hive.

The contrast between the solid, warm weight of his friend and the knowledge of Dean’s ebbing awareness struck him as yet another of life’s cruel little jokes.

“Dean,” was all he said, though, closing his eyes and pretending just for a second everything was OK.

Dean let go and stepped back with a child-like glee that Castiel had seen before, if rarely, but with a lack of shadows that was completely new.

“Sam! Cass is here! And you—” He pointed at Rowena, who was watching with a sad smile. “Uh, with the hair. This is Cass!”

“We’ve met,” the angel said with narrowed eyes.

Rowena gave a “Who, me?” look and then shook her head. “It’s lovely to meet your friend, Dean. Now, I believe you were about to tell us if you’re feeling dizzy or thirsty.”

Dean stood there a moment, then looked at Castiel. “Do I?”

Cass put his fingers to Dean’s forehead, controlling a shudder at the slimy magic inside him.

“Yes,” he told the room in general. “You need to have some water, but first you need to urinate.”

“Please tell us you remember how to do that,” Sam said.

Dean looked slightly dubious, but stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. Castiel heard the rustle of clothing, and then liquid hitting the water in the toilet and nodded to Sam while Rowena pretended to look into her bag.

“So, which of you watches Dean while I go after whoever’s left of the Loughlin family?” she asked.

Sam looked torn.

“I’ll stay,” Castiel said, knowing he would be better at monitoring Dean’s condition than his brother. “Don’t forget the bullets.”

Dean came out after that, hands wet and belt open, grinning at them all. Sam handed him a bottle of water, which Dean stared at like it held the wonders of creation. Then he and Rowena left.

“Here, Dean,” Castiel said gently, helping him open the water and do up his belt.

The man drank the bottle in one go, looked amazed, and handed the plastic container back to Castiel.

“Would you like to watch television?” the angel asked.

Dean looked at him, then said, “You always save me.”

Cass shook his head. “Not always.”

Dean frowned at him.

“I once lied to and betrayed you and your brother. After what I did to Jimmy Novak and his family, it’s my greatest regret.”

“Well, I don’t remember that.”

Castiel smiled. That sounded nice. “Well, for what it’s worth, I would never do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Would you like to watch television?”

Dean smiled. “Sure!”

He let Dean flip through the channels for a while then watched in some bemusement when he stopped, enthralled at an infomercial about an orange chamois that soaked cola up through a patch of carpet. Castiel wondered how Offer Shlomi, an Israeli-American, managed to fake such deeply compelling enthusiasm for a bit of spun rayon. Was this what his heritage and dreams had been destined for?

The segment ended, and Castiel waited for Dean to ask a question or perhaps change the channel, but when he looked over, the man was staring off into space, his face blank.

“Dean!” Castiel shook his shoulder. “Dean!”

Those green eyes, duller now, looked at him.

“Who are you?”

The put two fingers to his forehead, not bothering to suppress his grimace as the cold malice of _forget forget forget_ slithered over his friend’s brain. Closing his eyes, he pushed back with warmth and love, willing him to remember at least that he was safe, that Castiel was watching over him.

Whatever little was left Dean stared at him. Then he turned and frowned at the television, which was blaring some generic music over the credits.

“Ugly,” he said.

Castiel agreed and turned the noise off. Dean looked sad.

“Would you like to hear something more pleasant?” Cass asked.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“We’re going to fix you. Sam and Rowena will be back any minute, but until then, I’m going to be here, and I will do whatever I can to make you hang on.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, Dean.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Do I love you?”

Cass half-shrugged. “Not the same way, but yes, you do. We’re family.”

Dean seemed to consider this a moment, but it became another blank stare.

“Stay here with me, Dean.”

He looked over but wasn’t quite focused.

“Ah!” Feeling stupid, he fished his harp out of his pocket and set it down. Dean gasped as it reached the proper size. Castiel set his feet on the pedals and positioned it before strumming a scale and watching Dean’s eyes light up.

Without really thinking about it, he launched into Frank Mills’ “Music Box Dancer,” then knew he’d gotten it right when Dean hummed the baseline. He ran through the somewhat repetitive piece several times until Dean started to look puzzled.

“What is it?” he asked, fingers hovering over the strings.

“You must have played for me before, but I don’t remember it.”

Castiel shook his head. “No, I never did.”

“Why not? It’s so pretty.”

“Angel fellowship is expressed through music. It’s, well, intimate. Considering the disparity of our feelings for each other, it wouldn’t have been appropriate.”

“But you’re playing for me now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Castiel smiled. “Because you won’t remember.”

He played Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” next, just getting to the most famous part when he heard the Impala’s engine. With a thought, the harp was back in his pocket and he was striding over to fling open the door.

Sam had a cut on his forehead, and Rowena looked a little ruffled, but she threw the Black Grimoire on the bed, flipped to a page, and began chanting. A flash of light and a small shockwave later, and the magic was flung from Dean’s body. In a moment, the man was standing there fully again.

“What the hell?”

Sam hugged his brother while Rowena explained the spell. Soon afterwards, Dean announced he was starving, and Rowena took her leave—without the Black Grimoire—and Sam took Dean to a 24-hour waffle house.

Cass tagged along, sitting in the booth the whole time Dean shoved waffles and whipped cream into his mouth, one of his hands wrapped tightly around the small harp in his pocket.

At one point, Dean sauntered off to the men’s room, and Sam looked at him while picking at an egg white omelet.

“When I took her to her taxi, Rowena told me you used your grace to keep him from fading too far.”

Castiel nodded. “I knew you and she would be successful.”

Sam blinked at the compliment and gave a quick smile. “Thanks. Thanks for helping, Cass.”

Against his fingers, Castiel’s harp thrummed.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel’s schedule for reading through the Men of Letters’ archive hit a serious snag. After a simple spell to soundproof his room, the angel had abandoned reading for playing.

After awhile, he even managed a sort of schedule with the host of Heaven. If he played celestial melodies, at least two or three, sometimes many more, would join in. Earth-bound tunes would leave him solo.

He also got no interaction when he plucked idly at the strings, following the math a bit, thinking of his muse (Dean, obviously), and delighting in the uncertainty. They weren’t compositions. Angels didn’t make new things like that. But they were pretty enough and oddly made him feel better about what Inias had called his “human weakness.”

One night, plucking away, Castiel found himself for the very first time truly confronting just how willingly blind Dean Winchester was. It was both a frustrating and an oddly endearing quality.

“The angel in the dirty coat who’s in love with you.”

“Once Castiel laid a hand on you in Hell he was lost.”

“I will cure you of your human weakness.”

“He’s in love . . . with humanity.”

Oh yeah, Dean hadn’t heard that last one. Technically, Castiel hadn’t either, but he heard all about it later. Angels just loved to taunt him with what their brothers and sisters had to say about him.

The Winchesters’ purse dog: that was his favorite.

But seriously, if Castiel had ever wondered (and yes, he had) if he and Dean could be a bit more to each other than brothers in arms, the man’s absolute dismissal of about a thousand clues made the answer clear enough.

A little cloud seeding, Dean?

Whatever.

Frankly, while sex with April the Reaper had been very nice indeed, it wasn’t physical copulation with Dean Castiel primarily wanted. It was just to be closer than they got eye-fucking. Angels had about a hundred ways to “join,” from what Dean called a Vulcan mind-meld to sex to literally occupying the same space.

Sometimes, when he was a little drunk from a liquor store or two, Cass thought about how he would be content with just a prolonged hug. But then that usually led into a fantasy of wrapping his grace (what was left of it) around Dean’s soul and blurring the lines, so there was that.

The thought made him smile, and then he was about to pick a real melody to play when Dean knocked on his door.

Harp in his pocket, he opened up and saw Dean standing there in his boxer briefs, t-shirt, and bathrobe. He looked puzzled.

“Dean?”

“Cass, you got a minute?” Dean looked behind him.

“Oh course.” Castiel stepped back. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Dean stands there for a moment, then looks at him squarely. “Cass, do you, I mean, did you say something to me when, you know, I was out of it?”

“Something like what?”

He scowled as though Castiel were being difficult on purpose, which, of course, he was, but Dean couldn’t know that.

“I don’t know! Something important.”

“I don’t believe so, Dean.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“What?”

“That’s exactly the look you gave me back when you were working with Crowley and wouldn’t admit it.”

“I assure you—”

“Cass, seriously, I need you to come clean here.” Dean actually turned away and paced to the nearby wall, then spun back around. “It’s driving me crazy.”

Now the angel was bewildered. “What is?”

“I keep almost making it to sleep. I’m right there, man, and then I know for a fact you said something important to me, and you gave me a music box.”

“I did what?”

“I know how stupid that sounds, OK? You gave me a music box and said something important, and I can’t remember, damn it!”

Castiel found his hands had raised, patting the air soothingly. “Dean, you weren’t really you then. You were close to forgetting how to swallow, how to breathe. I’m sure whatever I said—”

Dean held up a finger. “Whatever you said? You know what you said. You remember things perfectly. Tell me exactly what you said.”

Castiel made a show of calming himself, then frowned in concentration. “I asked if you wanted to watch television.”

Dean didn’t quite fold his arms and tap his foot, but it was obviously a temptation. “OK, and?”

“You said I always saved you.”

Dean looked at him.

“I reminded you that I had once betrayed you and your brother and that I regretted it. Then I asked if you wanted to watch television again. You agreed. We watched an infomercial for the ShamWoW!

“The orange chamois guy?”

“Yes.” He paused, then nodded. “You forgot who I was, so I tried to make the spell recede, which bought us some more time.”

“And then?”

“And then Sam and Rowena—”

“No. What exactly did you say next?”

“I said they were going to save you and that I would make sure you hung on until then.” Then Castiel played his trump card. “I said we were family.”

But his triumph dissipated when Dean looked defeated. For a moment, that same guileless child shone through his disappointment.

“Nothing else?”

_Well, damn it_.

Castiel found himself looking at the floor.

“There was something else,” he admitted through a choked throat. “But I only shared it with you because I knew you wouldn’t remember it.” He looked up to see Dean glaring at him. “I don’t suppose you could just let it go?”

It happened. Dean crossed his arms, though he didn’t tap his foot.

Castiel sighed and reached into his pocket. Dean ended up glaring at his hand as he opened it.

“Is that a tiny harp?”

“Yes.”

“You carry around a tiny harp?”

“Yes, it wasn’t a music box. It was my harp.”

Dean stared at him, and then the left end of his lip curled up. Then it flattened. Then it curled up again.

“You have a harp? An angel harp?”

Castiel stomped down on his anger. “It’s not meant to be amusing.”

“A miniature harp?”

“It’s currently small so I can conceal it.” The angel was aware his voice was betraying the insult he felt, but he couldn’t control it. “Because the last thing I wanted to do was show it to you!”

Now Dean looked hurt.

Castiel sighed, closed his eyes, steadied himself.

“It’s an ‘angel thing,’ all right? Just let it go.”

Dean was back to looking puzzled.

“So, angels really do have harps?”

Castiel took another breath. “All angels . . . do you remember I told you that in Heaven I am a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent?”

Dean nodded and looked at least somewhat serious.

“Angels resonate, which manifests in human terms as stringed instruments. Mine is a harp. Other angels have other instruments.”

“So, you guys play your instruments together to, what, stay in sync?”

Castiel let his surprise show. “Yes.”

Dean thought about for a minute. “Sammy and me, when we’re in the car listening to music, you know, I mean, I get it, I think.” He frowned. “But I thought the other angels didn’t like you.”

“It’s not a question of affection, Dean. It’s just a way to . . .” He sighed again. “It’s very difficult to put into human terms.”

Dean nodded slowly, obvious satisfied and about to leave. In a moment, he would apologize for insisting, and they would likely never discuss it again.

Castiel had thrown his harp to the floor and watched it become its proper size before he realized he was going to do anything at all.

“Woah.”

Castiel sat on the edge of bed, pulled the harp into position, put his feet on the pedals, and played a piece to welcome the warmth, sun, and new life of spring.

In very short order, Heaven-bound angels had joined him: Dremogh and her acoustic guitar, Johan and his Hardanger fiddle, Jamaliel and his lute.

“Touch my shoulder, Dean,” he said.

Tentatively, a warm hand settled into the space between his neck and shirt collar, and as much as he could without doing the man harm, he shared the sensation of true celestial harmony.

Hours passed. Then Dean’s hand fell away. Castiel finished the progression, ended the piece, and set the harp back on its base.

Dean stared at him for quite a while.

“That,” he finally said. “That’s what you betrayed when you stood with me and Sam against the Apocalypse?”

Castiel snorted softly. Trust Dean to jump right to the most important thing. Then he nodded and put the instrument back into his pocket.

“Above all else,” he said. “Above food and water, above shelter, above love and success, sentient beings need to be recognized, need to be known by others, even if not accepted. The validation of being seen, of being heard: the angels know of no intelligent creature that does not need that first, before anything else.”

Dean considered it, then chuckled just slightly and shook his head. “You’re right. It doesn’t really translate into human terms, but that was damn close.”

Castiel smiled, but Dean was looking at him oddly now.

“I had no idea what I was asking for.”

The angel shrugged. “I could have told you then if I wanted you to know.”

Dean didn’t seem to like that, but, Castiel thought, _Tough cookies_.

“And that’s what you did the night I was losing my memories. You played for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

_Because I’m in love with you, you ass._

Castiel shrugged. “There was nothing on TV except another infomercial.”


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel told himself later he really should have expected Sam’s eagerly curious look when he walked into the kitchen the next morning. Ignoring it didn’t work, neither did glaring at Dean.

Damn those puppy-dog eyes. It was almost as bad as when Dean wanted something.

So he spent the morning plucking his way through Donizetti’s harp solo from _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , Beethoven’s “Six Variations on a Swiss Song,” the first movement of Bach’s First Cello Concerto, Frank Mills’ “Music Box Dancer (Dean insisted he play it three times through while glaring at him), the Largo from Handel’s _Xerxes_ , John Barry’s theme from _Somewhere in Time_ , the “Tenement Symphony,” and finally Puccini’s “Nussun Dorma.”

Sam listened avidly, as did Dean, which surprised him. Bowing a little at their applause, he put the instrument back in his pocket.

“You think you know a guy,” Sam said, which made Dean and Castiel laugh, which then meant they had to explain how Dean had said the same thing.

“So angels all have different instruments?” Sam asked.

“They aren’t unique, but they vary greatly.”

Of course, that led to seventeen more questions from Sam until his brother told him to change the subject. Oddly, Castiel didn’t mind answering Sam’s queries, but did hesitate when Dean suddenly said:

“Lucifer!”

The others looked at him.

“Lucifer has an instrument, then, right?”

Castiel shook his head. “Archangels don’t manifest instruments.”

“Why not?” Sam wanted to know.

“They are themselves orchestras.”

“Sounds about right for those guys,” Dean said, making it a profane insult.

To Castiel’s relief, life in the bunker didn’t change much after that. Dean must have let Sam know it was more to him than just playing on his harp when he performed with his brothers and sisters, and then they spent a week on a vampire hunt, then a couple days “chilling” in with showers and food before they got a call from Mary.

She wanted them to help her and a hunter named Wally kill a demon.

A day later, they were in a diner. Not for the first time, Cass thought about how Sam and Dean used diners the same way he had once used Biggerson’s. The wonderful sameness of it all was a sort of home even in a place he’d never been before. Castiel knew the role the Impala had played in preventing the Apocalypse, the surgical cut into Sam’s childhood memories and love for his brother brought on by the history of that tribute to American heavy metal. Diners were somewhat like that to him now. In fact, he doubted he would be able to behave properly now in a fancy restaurant.

The trappings were more than comforting: the aluminum table with that sharp ridge around the edge, the aluminum and vinyl chairs, the smells of sausage and waffle batter and (just a hint) of disinfectant. As Castiel sat around the table with Sam, Dean, Mary, and Wally, he felt completely at home.

That is, until the waitress smiled at him and asked, “And how ‘bout you, handsome?”

Castiel looked down at the menu and read the first thing he saw: “Sunrise Special, please.”

Mandy, who had not been even remotely interested in Dean for some unfathomable reason, smiled at him in a way that even Castiel could understand.

“Nice,” she said, and bounced away.

Dean waited until she was barely out of earshot, then leered at him. “Oh, dude, she is into you.”

Wally agreed.

Castiel was confused. Was he supposed to ask Mandy for sex now or later or make some other arrangement? Did he have to have sex with her? If it were like being with April, it would be nice, but there was a lot going on in the following conversation he didn’t get.

Dean shook off his mother’s objections. “No, this is good. We’ve been looking for teachable moments.”

Mary took a call from a hunter, which Castiel knew wasn’t quite right, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. Then Sam complained about the internet connection.

“Nobody cares,” Dean told his brother. Then he looked across the table. “Cass, here’s the thing you need to know about waitresses, OK? They get hit on all day long, so you gotta bring your A game. But upside? They always smell like food.”

Wally agreed and looked enthusiastic, pointing to Dean. “They always smell like food.”

There was a bit of a squabble after that, which Mary settled with a mission briefing that oddly involved a demon who liked night fishing.

Wally worried him greatly by admitting that demon hunting was all new to him. “You got a rougarou problem?” he asked. “Hey, I’m your guy. But demons? Hell. Look, I was just passing through and I heard about some cattle mutilations.”

“Classic demon sign,” Sam said..

“I started to dig,” Wally continued. “A lot of virgins go missing around here too.”

Dean snorted. “Classic horny demon sign.”

“Which is why Wally called us,” Mary said. Castiel again felt she was hiding something. “Asking for help. So, are we all clear on the plan?”

“At 10:45, demon comes home,” Dean said. “Sam and I will be waiting for him. I’ll pop him with a devil’s trap bullet.”

Sam said, “I’ll finish him off with the demon blade.”

Castiel nodded. “And I will wait at the back with you in case he comes in that way.”

“Cool, cool,” Wally said. “What do I do?”

“Keep a lookout. Don’t die,” Dean said.

Mary looked at the hunter reassuringly. “Everything is gonna be fine.”

The angel seriously doubted that.

Mandy came back and doled out coffee. Castiel took a sniff, and she smelled as familiar as the diner. She was hot, but then it occurred to him that if he had sex with her Dean would probably praise him, and he lost all interest.

In a few hours, they had scoped out the house with the demon, laid their trap, and were waiting. Another hour after that, and Wally was dead and Cass was dying from a stab wound made by Michael’s Lance.

“Cass,” Dean demanded. “How bad is it?”

_How bad do you think it is, jackass? I’ve been stabbed by the damn Michael Lance._

He kept that thought to himself, loosened his tie, and showed the wound as it crept in as black spider webs all over his vessel. This wasn’t something the Winchesters could fix.

The words came off his tongue only with effort. What was he now that he was agreeing with the King of Hell? “Crowley’s right,” he said. “You should go.”

Dean protested, and everyone looked (gratifyingly) miserable, which then made him feel incredibly guilty. It occurred to Castiel that he hadn’t felt as much a member of a true family since the Fall of Mankind.

“Thank you,” he said. “Knowing you, it’s been the best part of my life. And the things that we’ve shared together, they have changed me. You’re my family.” He looked at Dean, but then made sure to glance over at Sam and Mary too. “I love you. I love all of you. Just please, don’t make my last moments be spent watching you die.”

“Your harp!” Sam said.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” Dean asked.

“What?” Mary asked.

Sam shrugged. “You’re right, never mind. It was just a thought.”

Ramiel came in after that, and though they attacked him and ringed him holy fire, it was all pretty pointless. In the end, Sam got the upper hand with a simple scuffle, and then, again, Crowley of all people broke the lance and saved him.

“You’re welcome,” the King of Hell said, and then he disappeared.

After everything settled and they were all breaking up to go their own ways again, Dean pulled him close.

“Seriously, Cass. We have to talk.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is done. Sorry it's a little short of the word count, but I hope you still like it!

As it happened, Mary needed to leave them immediately, talking about a hunter who had an emergency. Dean and Sam both looked dubious, which Castiel trusted, though he could think of no reason for her to lie, other than not wanting to come back to the Bunker and spend time with her sons.

The angel knew there were all manner of subtleties about Mary’s relationships with her sons, and he could not pretend to understand how bizarre and disorienting her life was. He did love her himself, and he knew she loved Sam and Dean. Still, he wished she felt more comfortable being around them all. Dean and Sam’s feelings of loss and confusion regarding her were painful to behold.

Thinking about that distracted him from what Dean had said about needing to talk, along with his assumption that Dean just wanted to vent about Crowley. Honestly, Castiel had no idea what was going on with the King of Hell. Being a part of the purification ritual with Sam’s blood had changed the demon, but beyond that, the angel was clueless.

So when they made it to the Bunker, Castiel drank a beer with the brothers and then made it to his room. He felt like a little reading, actually.

Dean knocked on his door and then, oddly, just walked right in and shut the door behind him.

“Dean?”

The hunter scowled at him. “What going on with you, Cass?”

Cass scowled back. “Could you be more specific?”

Dean huffed/snorted and looked like he wanted to fight someone. It was a familiar enough expression, but the angel suspected with unease that it was directed at him.

“Dean,” he said as placatingly as possible. “I’m not sure what has you so upset.”

That didn’t help. Dean looked even angrier.

“What else happened when I was out of it?”

Castiel didn’t pretend he didn’t know what that meant.

“I told you. I played for you, said I would always do whatever I could to save you, and said we’re family.”

“And what?”

“Dean!” Castiel didn’t know his tone was going to be that angry, but he didn’t regret it. He stood up from the bed. “I’ve told you what happened.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Dean glared. “You betrayed Heaven to help us.”

Castiel had to reset a little. “I agreed with your cause.”

“You said you did it all for me and you got nothing.”

“Yes, because back then you were about to betray that cause.”

“You told me you loved you.”

“You and Sam and Mary, yes. You’re my fam—”

“Are you in love with me, or what?!”

They both looked startled.

“Dean.” And then Castiel ran out of words.

Dean closed his eyes.

“OK, look. I’m not going to do . . . whatever it is you think I’m going to do.”

“Because you’re not interested.”

Dean seemed taken aback, which frankly pissed Castiel off.

“Dean, I need to offer my apologies if you haven’t figured it out, but I have been nothing but respectful of what you humans call your ‘boundaries.’” He realized his fingers had made those little quote marks and put his hands down, only to watch them rise back up again. “Your ‘personal space.’”

Castiel took a deep breath, which technically did nothing for his blood oxygen levels but still made him feel a little better.

“I have done nothing, ever, to put you in a compromising position.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that’s the problem?”

Castiel knew he was gaping like a fish but couldn’t get his mouth to close.

Dean threw his hands up, walked away a couple of steps, and then turned around. “You’re an angel!”

“Yes.” There, that got his mouth closed.

“So, what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Dean, you’re not making any—”

“I can’t be the one to make the first move! What? I’m supposed to grab your ass and see if you smite me?”

“I would never—”

“I’m supposed to offer up my body when I’m not even sure you would be capable of wanting it? I don’t know if you even like sex anymore now you’re not human, let alone sex with a guy! Let alone sex with me! I don’t even know now, if you’re in love with me, if sex is a part of it! So, what am I supposed to do? Get you drunk and roll the dice? Take you to the movies and try to neck? Get on my knees? Rip off your clothes? Rip off my clothes?”

Castiel was getting seriously dizzy with the images cavorting through his brain, but he managed to rasp out, “Do you want any of that?”

Dean stepped into his personal space.

“I just know I want more of you than I’m getting. A lot more.”

So, the angel took the man at his word, leaned forward, and took those lips he’d stared at for countless hours with his own. He put his hands around Dean’s body and ran his fingertips over the harp strings of his ribs and spine, feeling gently for the nerves with pressure that Dean would enjoy. He pressed forward, allowing his body (and yes, damn it, Jimmy hadn’t been there for years—it was his now) to absorb the heat of Dean presence.

Meanwhile, Dean pushed off his Castiel’s overcoat and jacket, opened his mouth to invite the angel’s tongue inside, and was doing his best to soak up Castiel’s heat as well.

Dizzy again, burning and hungry, Castiel focused on Dean’s taste and solid flesh, going past the awareness of molecules and cells, practically diving into the bright soul that welcomed him with a joyous hunger of its own.

He didn’t have a lot of experience in this area, but Castiel had never been so turned on in his life.

It actually hurt to remove his hands from Dean’s body, but the clothing had to go. Dean obviously had the same idea, and soon everything, even their clunky shoes, were scattered on the floor. With a groan of delight, Cast arched back, letting them both fall to the bed behind him. Dean dodged the rebound, then came back to kiss along his neck, and then his chin, and then take his lips again.

“What do you want, Cass? Tell me. I want to do it with you.”

“Touch me.”

“What else?”

“I don’t care.” Cass got his eyes open long enough to see Dean shoot him a look of disbelief, and then those strong, gentle hands were on him, stroking, squeezing, petting, pumping.

Cass lasted about thirty seconds, then just came all over them both.

“Ha!” the hunter shouted in triumph, then ground his hips down into the slickness Castiel had made, rubbing in the heat and oh-so-human-like release of it all.

“Dean.” Cass tried to lift his legs, but they weren’t responding very well. “You can be inside me, if you want.”

Dean reared back with another look of disbelief, then shuddered and came all over them both himself.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke or moved much beyond breathing.

Finally, Dean stirred, turning his head slightly to kiss the skin just above Cass’ heart.

“I think we need a little more practice.”

Castiel laughed quite a while after that, even chuckling inside at the unbelievable feeling when Dean was rocking within his body, radiating out little bursts of hedonism he savored all the way to his toes.

In all his thousands of years of existence, no one had ever played him before.

THE END


End file.
